


The Dark Knight of the Winter Rose

by Ambrosia29



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Knight, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fantasy, Revisionist Fairy Tale, Riddles, dragonslayer, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 23:35:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7075318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ambrosia29/pseuds/Ambrosia29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Against many odds, the dragon plaguing their country is slain. Who is this Dragonslayer, come to claim his prize, the King's own sister, in marriage? Why does he seem so familiar?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dark Knight of the Winter Rose

The echo of those boots did not ‘clank’ or ‘thud’ against the marble of the floor; they whispered. The armor did not gleam. It did not shine. It was not white; it would never have been white in her dreams. It was black.

She took him in as he strode across the floors, face cloaked against the light streaming in through the veiled windows. It may have been her imagination running wild with her but she could swear she still saw smoke pluming around him, arising from within the crevasses of his armor, his shoulders and even trailing the tip of his sheathe, where his sword rested at his side.

Though his eyes were hooded, his face cloaked in shadows of his and the world’s design she could feel them upon her. The weight of them settling in her guts like a blade that longed for a sheathe. She wanted to rise and greet this demon-creature. She wanted to flee this black knight. The Black Knight. It was what they were calling him in the streets.

The dragon-slayer.

When the foreign Queen had invaded, bringing with her the savage men and her great Dragons they had been a wonder, a terror to behold. When they’d flown North it was a matter of practicality to surrender to their forces for none in living memory had faced a dragon.

But he had. It was as if from a tale, she’d heard it whispered in ripples that foretold his coming.

The great beasts, left to their devices after the war, had gone wild, burning crops and villages in search of food and then virgins. She’d not believed that tale, when it was told but she felt she nearly could, now.

The new Queen had reluctantly declared a hunt against the vicious green dragon which had so slaughtered the people of her kingdom. How could she do otherwise when her rule was both to secure her birthright and the safety of the realm? Dragons or not, she would find herself hard-pressed to maintain her birthright if the people were threatened with meaningless slaughter.

So the word had gone out: the hand of the Winter Rose would go to whoever slew the fearsome, majestic creature. So certain had her brother been in the plans failure that he and his wife had agreed.

The Queen was still despondent behind closed doors at the loss of her second child. Her brother, guilty at the prospect of marrying her to a stranger, a brute most likely.

The cloaked man stood before the dais now, she, the brother of Snow and his Silver Queen sitting upon the thrones. Slowly, the large figure kneeled.

“Why do you not remove your cloak?” her brother demanded. Her heart pounded with fear before he had answered.

“I am not fit to be seen before you.”

“You slew the dragon, Rhaegal?”

“It was I.”

“What is your name?”

“I dare not speak it, o’ King.”

There was a pause which filled the hall and her heart with dread. Who was he? A lion, perhaps? A Bannerman to the Mountain? Oh, why was his face so covered? Her hands clenched upon the arms of her chair imperceptibly. Yet, the dragon-slayer shifted, as though tilting his hear to regard her directly.

“Why?” came the arch demand from the Queen.

“There are those at your court who have killed me before; I’ll not chance it again. I was not in good standing when the Lannisters were in power and am uncertain now if I would be welcome to your House, o’ Queen, were I to wed the Winter Rose.”

“But that was the prize promised.”

“Indeed. Yet, I would speak to the Lady directly and tell her cunning ears of my deeds, that she might know me. If she would have me, I would be honored to join your House. If not, then I’ll take gold and never trouble you with the sight of me.”

Upon this veritable speech she noted a strange sense of familiarity in the tone and timbre of his voice, though not in its cadence and rhythm. It tugged at her memory but no face emerged from the shadows she searched through. “Tell me, good Ser,” she spoke after a glance to her family and back to his veiled countenance, “who are you? There is something familiar about you but I can recall neither name nor face.”

The cloaked man chuckled, a dark sound filled with bitterness that made bewildered tears prick the corners of her eyes. The words that fell from his lips were said as though being read or from memory and practice. “I faced dragon-fire, though in another life I fled from flame. I faced fire beneath the mountain. I have sheltered a bird while my hands were tied. I have spoken ugly half-truths to a song in hope to be pricked by a needle without thread. I have marauded these lands though I lay dead. The Stranger himself is tamed to my hand. ‘Black Knight’ they call me, but never have I been a true ‘Ser.’” The shadow pauses, and in a tone far more tender and quiet than the rest, continues, “My greatest crime; I stole a bird’s song when I asked her to take flight.”

The following stillness was taut with knife-blade tension. Her voice had left her, choked on the knot of tears she fought to keep inside. She hadn’t let anyone see her cry in years; she wouldn’t begin now in the throne room. Her breath held, her hands now iron-gripped against the armrest lest everyone see her trembling with the effort.

“Her silence says enough,” her brother said, “I thank you on behalf of the Kingdom for your service to this land; you will be given what you ask, and room and board for the evening if you wish, before you depart where you will.”

The cloaked figure nods slowly, making a bow of it like a knight swearing fealty and she knew it was for her. Tears gathering in her eyes, she shakes her head as he stands and turns to walk back down the hall. She fails the first attempt at speech. Swallows, talks a deep breath and speaks.

“No.”

The Black Knight stops. Turns.

Turns and looks at her.

Everyone is looking at her. So she remembers her steel and takes a slow breath before continuing with all of the formality and decorum she can stand. “I will not have it said that we are forsworn, to give mere gold when a position of standing, of prominence, is what was promised.”

Her brother and his Queen both looked at her with bewilderment. She looked back at them, challenge and demand in her face where it to seldom was. “If this man has committed any crimes against you, my King and Queen, then he must be pardoned. He is no Knight, but nobility still, in more ways than many Knights who claim the title. He has slain your dear Rhaegal, fought valiantly as any in the tales of old. Let the people have their tale come to life; I would have this man as my husband.”

The King stood from the throne and looked at her, really looked before turning to the man who stood frozen to the floor below them. “You would swear fealty to House Targaryen?”

“He will,” she said with conviction, eyes only for the cloaked figure.

He nodded once and the gesture looked and felt solemn even beneath the veil. “I will,” came the voice, echoing off the walls of the hall for everyone to hear.

“Remove your hood, stranger; I would see the man who has won the hand of my fair sister. I would see the man who wishes to serve me.”

He walked with slow, steady steps as though he waded through water. Hands lifted from their place at his sides and he ducked his head before taking the hood in his fingers.

The hood removed, some who were close enough did indeed gasp at the sight of him. The King only blinked at the scars which covered the side of his face, puckered around his eye and stretched down to his jaw. The rest was cloaked by thick black hair. He met the King’s dark eyes with his own grey before turning to look at her.

The years between them had given weight to their memories. It was in her eyes, she knew, as surely as it was in his own. Forgetting herself, she stood and walked to the edge of the dais. He walked toward her, stopping beneath and looking up at her as though she were the only water in a vast desert, starved for sight of her. He knelt on one knee, eyes locked still to hers. “I would serve her,” he said, “serve your House, more faithfully than any Hound.”

Her smile was brilliant enough its light reflected in his eyes. She reached a hand down to him and near-glowed with her own light when his fingers first brushed her own. She laced them together, felt the leather of his glove, the weight of his hard hands and strong bones between her own. He was a specter from her distant past, once long thought dead. But here he was, warm in her hand.

She would never let him go again.


End file.
